


Thrall

by wizardslexicon



Category: Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardslexicon/pseuds/wizardslexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young werewolf stalks Hyrule Field in the darkness. A Twilight Princess werewolf!Link ficlet. Warning for gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irismon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irismon/gifts).



It only takes a glance up at the sky to see her rising, that baleful disc all aglow. Your bones quiver with the sensation, and she’s calling you, pulling your flesh up like the tide, commanding you. _Rise_.

You manage to sheathe the Ordon Sword before it comes over you, the massive, raging fury that is your true strength. It’s like a vessel being filled until it overflows, the squirming darkness pouring out of you so fast and so heavy that you might just drown it it. The sound that escapes your lips could not under any circumstances be mistaken for human.

And then it comes, the agony. The golden mark on your hand won’t allow you to rise to your full power, no, it seals you into a lesser form than the great beast that is yours by right. Your vertebra melt and reform, bones and tendons snapping and reconnecting in foreign ways as your entire body is forced to reshape itself around the power sealed within. The moon’s call is inescapable, undeniable, and there’s an orgasmic ecstasy to obeying it even in the throes of torture.

You fall forward onto twisting and widening hands, watching your leans muscles become the artistic gray and black limbs of a monster. The mark always disposes of your clothes and equipment during the night, and your shadow is already twisting, moving. You open your mouth to speak and it comes out a snarl. The worst is yet to come.

Your jaw breaks cleanly, and the bones of your face grind together as they shift. Your eyes expand until they grow too large for their sockets, bulging and nearly bursting until your skull makes room for them. Teeth expand and sharpen into deadly tools, digging into your gums until your mouth is ready. The pain is excruciating, and you paw at your face until it’s over. You look behind you, see your tail. It is finished.

You are a beautiful blue-eyed beast, and it is glorious.

The relief, and the sheer carnal pleasure of being closer to your true self, is so inspiring you can’t help but loose a song toward the moon, your silver mistress. The imp is out now, having emerged from your shadow. She says something in her crude language and you snap at her. This is not the time for simian tongues to speak. She slaps your muzzle and you consider killing her, but decide against it. It is human blood you seek tonight.

You spring into motion, running through the night, all tightened sinew and brutal grace. The imp rides your back, surely comical in appearance, but it is no matter. She is not heavy enough to annoy you, and you are sure she derives some pleasure from riding you like a beast of burden. You do not have to lift your nose into the air to smell the humans camping in the forest not far away. They are cooking their meat, and they reek of perfumes and dried sweat. Vile. Delicious.

You fly into their campsite like a whirling devil, and immediately one of the three humans, a woman in a skirt and blouse, hops on her horse and rides away, screaming to raise the dead. You let her go. You refuse to hunt horses, for reasons nothing to do with the moonlight screaming through your veins. Of the two men remaining, one reeks of ale, unpleasant and strong. You feint at him, smelling urine soak through his underthings as he scrambles off into the trees.

You circle the last one, letting his fear spread throughout his body. He can’t move yet, but when he does, hopefully he’ll make a fight of it. You are disappointed. When he relaxes, you can smell his bowels, and lunge for the kill. You have no interest in tasting feces in your meal. Your paws hit his shoulders and he topples easily, and with a single bite you tear out his throat. He suddenly becomes much more compliant, and you look directly into his eyes as you watch him die. As soon as you see his soul flee his body, you begin to dig into his chest, finding the delicious morsel of his heart and eating it first.

The imp comments and you are not sure you care. As you eat, your body cools and tingles. Of course. You have made your sacrifice to the mother, and the end of your time is drawing near. You eat as much as you can, until your stomach hands low to the ground, and bury what is left under the remains of the now-dead fire. Then you wait, growling and wincing as your fur falls off, your bones elongate, and your face shrinks and changes form.

Your clothes are back, and conveniently without bloodstains, and there’s an awful taste in your mouth. The imp scuttles back into your shadow, and you shudder. Killing men is only glorious when you are a beast, and you send a prayer to the goddess for the soul of the dead.

After a whistle, you are riding Epona back to Kakariko Village, where you’ll rest for the night. No one need know that you were ever gone. Her hooves beat against the dusty earth, and for a brief moment you imagine that you are a beast again, and the moon rides high above a body hot with the thrill of the hunt.

You can wait another month.


End file.
